Loud Space
by Garbhan
Summary: Former Alliance Captain, AWOL and dishonorably discharged Scythe Drake, now a gun for hire and local space pirates, faces with his own fears and doubts the Reaper menace.


Shut eye

As the last echo died down, the lifeless body hit the muddy floor with a faint sound, burying the operative's face under water and dirt splashing around. The slug had gotten through the visor and skull before crashing into the helmet.

Tension in his arms eased and his breath came back to a normal uncontrolled rhythm preceded by a heavy sigh.

- these Cerberus dogs don't die easy, noted Valus, lowering the sights of his shotgun. For humans they keep the will.

- Combat drug on my money Cap', resonated Shelly' voice on the com'. This or these dumb brainless are just fried.

- Quit the chat, cut Drake advancing on the first corpse. Shel' keep overwatch, Valus make sure they won't move a muscle. My six. And Shel, get the Tyber. I want evacuation of the whole colony in less than three hours.

While kneeling on the dead human, Drake took off the security of his pistol, putting the canon against his head. If he knew one good foul play, it was playing dead. But he didn't move, not when he was close, and not when he took off the helmet. It was a nasty mess. Sure the forehead looked like he had a third eye. But a third of the back skull was tore open like rotten mango. War life or farmer's, such a close encounter with death never left anyone untouched and Drake let a disgusted grin come through his face.

- Nice shot Zero.

Something was wrong, Drake knew it. Sure he had read the books, seen the vids. Back on Earth, some militias used narcotics to numb any pain. You would shoot the bastard with high velocity ammo, and he'd stand back on his feet until both his kneecaps or head had holes. Cerberus was bound to use such tricks. But the skin of the dead one here seemed other in causes. Gray skin tone and the eyes…

- Husks.

- What?

The Turian leaned to see for himself.

- He's a husk.

- You gotta be joking Zero!

- Look for yourself mate. No wonder these fuckers don't' react to slugs. They ain't human anymore.

A second later, a gunshot went off, startling Drake who turned, knee down, aiming towards Valus.

- I guess we go back to the double tap rule then Cap', smiled the alien apparently very satisfied of it.

- Guess we are.

- Zero?

- What is it Shel'?

- Tyber is going for landing, start gathering the colony.

- Comms kicked in yet?

The tech nodded, sliding his rifle from an arm to the other, turning away to the main hideout of the colonists. Drake switched his radio back on, getting instant feed and chat about the frigate circling around the area. Staying silent for a while, he listened while capturing data and video captures of the corpse facing him, the human merc was already thinking about the next step. They would welcome around sixty to eighty refugees in a frigate already fully manned of her fifty two crew. Shel had told the poor lads to bring rations for themselves and or their neighbors, to work together as a team more than like self-surviving rats. He hoped they'd listened, even tough, facing survival, mankind was too easily driven to its little self. What a waste.

- Zann, how long for the pick up? He asked getting back up, facing the surrounding sky.

- Ah, you're back! We've found a spot Zero, and landing as we speak. Shel has coordinates.

- Anyone but us now?

- Scans don't show anything or anyone else. Cattle aside. Er… Cap' you sure want them aboard?

- Damn right. We're giving 'em a lift to the Citadel.

- Roger.

Valus had a look. This particular look, which matched the pilot's tone upon taking the colonists. He couldn't take them all. But this district surely.

- You… hesitated the Turian, changing a cooling clip for another, don't want to signal Alliance officials… Right Zero?

- Hell no, he smiled back. We'll leave a tip once at Citadel.

- What's the point saving them then?

- What's the point not to? The Reapers stories may be true, then a life is a life. Zann?

- Yes Commander?

- Prep' med bay but don't get over loaded. Triage on LZ. No infectious, if aliens, no distinctions. I'm on my way.

On his way back, Drake caught up with the rest of his scattered squad and their hunt for survivors. Out the sixteen who had leaped through the two Kodiak runs, four had met their ancestors, and four others were in med bay. A good day; if in the Alliance Marines. Bad one when a small time pirate and merc with only his one vessel crew to count as subordinates. He had known them for the past three years. Not a single man died in combat. Malark died of stroke while on leave, in a small time half standing brothel, and was the only. The sound of radio chatter dozed off his ears, his mind leaving the present dead battleground. He felt like walking asleep until his bunk. He did however, manage to give an hour to his crew before takeoff, not caring if civvies were still out there. Once alone, Drake fell. He just fell, his legs failing him as unresponsive to any brain command other than "fall". On his ass, against his bunk, rifle cast aside, the human remembered what was his first alien encounter like. A slaughter, all the way. Lasted five days and five nights. Among the thirteen – including himself as sergeant – marines sent on the Terminus planet, four came out standing…

He still remembered how they had landed as conquerors, ready to take the full spectrum of some wannabee slaver, before realizing that alien slavers had more reach than humans. On the first two hours, it's the whole second fire squad who disappeared only leaving dog tags and burnt down armors. The platoon commander, Lieutenant Gruber, tried a emergency EVAC on the first night. Second disaster, rockets greeted him by lighting the sky like a 4th of July. And it went on, and on until, out of ammo, Drake had slit the throat of two slavers after a two hour infiltration in the camp. Leader's head rolling on the floor somehow made the rest very still and talkative. With a sly smirk, he still reminisced how he lined them up and shot each one without a word. And when he came up to the last exclaimed "Damn, I forgot to interrogate them. Oh well. Legit defense!"

The poor bastard had given more intel than after six months of comm' hacking. Wonders of fear and torture.

While recollecting the images of the mission, the mercenary noticed how he had stayed focused from foot on to takeoff. First on the slavers, than on getting payback before willing to end everything on a high speed rhythm. Already a violent guy, yet efficient. He had no remorse upon losing his men, only on how easily it happened and how he could have avoided it. But this mind, this way Drake managed to think clearly suddenly stroke him. A little like Valus who used to stand back straight, one arm in the back, pistol discharging shot after shot, as if the Turian was in a shooting range on a lazy Sunday. In this very detached way. Never used to matter, how many fell, and how many never came back home, as long the objective was secured and or neutralized. Yet, all that focus made Drake forget all about time. Food and water needs were drawn back until the action was finished. Now back on the Tyber, the mind unlocked all nervous signals of alarms, making him a wreck. He needed shut eye, sure he did. And he did. Like weight falling on him he fell into a deep sleep, sitting against his bunk, head bobbed down on his chest. If none observant of the slow breathing, he could be mistaken for being in deep meditation, had he not put his left hand on his thigh holster. Dead man's hand laying on his safeguard. Finally some shut eye. Some silence.


End file.
